No Music, Just Lyrics An A2A Fanfic
by Wanna Be Abby
Summary: Alex is writing, trying to connect back with the real world of 2008. And whilst she is writing her diary, Gene meanders in... Possible alternative title 'Every Day I Write The Book'. Rated K/K for minor language.


Apparently my Froggy Muses just hadn't done with me and this idea kept banging away to the door of my last remaining productive brain cell till I gave in and wrote this one. Faithfully Beated by KYD - it's been a while I practically had to de-moth ball the poor woman - who is not only a staunch friend but dear beta reader and honest feedbacker, not to mention Wing Chick. One day I will finish 'See You In The Movies, Kid' and stop her poor Tony DiNozzo spinning round like a demented windmill on 'E', and I might one day be able to put ink to paper and bring Owen from Torchwood back to life, but till then I'll keep throwing A2A based fic in her direction and beg her to take mercy upon my poor skills. Bless her!  
It seems an age since the last episode of A2A, with the Price's murdered by the obsessive and murderous father of Alex, leaving the younger version of their daughter alone and the elder astonished to discover it was Gene, not the wayward Evan, who took care of her post-explosion. Where does she go from here? Down to the lake? Or merely back to Luigi's to share a carafe or three with the Gene Genie whilst we await the snog that surely has to come? I await S2 with barely disguised impatience and a much watched dvd box set of S1. In the meantime, lyrics and songs keep waving at me going 'Look! I'd be perfect for a Gene/Alex fic! For God's sake woman - aren't you listening?!' and for once I was organdized enough to write something down...  
Reviews always welcome, particularly as this is one of my longer one shots.  
Thanks for coming, enjoy the show and remember, in the words of Roxy Music 'Nothing lasts for ever? That ain't true...'

**No Music, Just Lyrics' - An A2A fanfic**

'I never noticed, hadn't seen it as it grew, the void between as the flame turns blue  
I'm in collision with every stone I ever threw, blind ambition where the flame turns blue  
I heard a rumour, I don't know if it's true, that you'd meet me where the flame turns blue…'

Damn, thought Alex, why can't I remember more of that? She raked a hand threw her hair, wincing as she caught a knot of permed curls. Extracting her fingers she tapped the pages of her notebook with her biro.  
She'd decided to keep this, her journal, a few days after she arrived in 1981. She hadn't kept a journal - a diary of any sorts - since she went to university.  
Childish ways left behind when she packed her books, her clothes, her make up and headed for her adult life.

Well, almost left behind. Over ten years of inner turmoil, of everyday life, of thoughts that needed to be set down before her brain exploded in flames with the intensity if it all.  
Over ten years of diaries lived in several shoeboxes at the back of her wardrobe - back in 2008.  
Her tutors and few friends at university had called her 'intense'. Her ex called it 'bloody obsessive self-centeredness'.

All Alex knew was that she had to concentrate on life; she had to take her work seriously. And her colleagues would certainly agree: you couldn't find a more dedicated profiler in the Met, was the general consensus whenever Alex's name cropped up. Again, 'intense' was applied somewhere in the conversation, though not always in a good way. Alex was aware of it, she knew she was. But what choice did she have?  
When that Ford Escort blew up, taking her parents far from her, what was left for her? No siblings for support and to support, no relatives - both her parents had been single children and both sets of grandparents were dead by the time Alex was two years of age. She had her godfather, Evan. And that was it.

She knew she had to prove to herself that she wasn't wasting Evan's time looking after her - so she had proved herself. Winning academic prizes, medals, striving for A grades, hungry for the next challenge, the next exam, the next benchmark that would finally prove her existence worthwhile.  
And so Alex grew up, first at a girl's prep school, then an all-girl's secondary school, then a co-ed sixth form for her A-Levels, then University. Her holidays and half terms were spent at Evan's house, or visiting school friends. Each summer, Evan would take her to somewhere on the Continent; Rome, Barcelona, Paris, Berlin, Prague. And they would tour the art galleries, take in the cultural sights.

When Alex started university, she went to festivals with her university friends, but not really quite enjoying them as she felt she ought to have. Just as she almost gave herself up to the pleasure of the music, of being with her contemporaries, of being young and free - she felt a cold feeling climb her spine and she knew she had to leave, to get away from the press of bodies, from the overwhelming noise of the bands and sheer mass of humanity. Eventually she stopped accepting invitations by claiming to have left it too late for tickets, she was so sorry, but have a good time and bring her back something, okay? Safe in the knowledge everyone would be too wasted on whatever substance of choice was fashionable that year to remember to keep that promise.

She had imagined herself happy when she was married, tried hard to conform to what her ex wanted from her. Molly was the only good thing to come out of that period of her life. That and at least when people met her, they didn't instantly think, 'Oh - so you're the Price's tragic daughter.' The pity in their eyes drove her mad, but she had schooled herself to present a neutral face under the circumstances.

Molly was the one who lightened her life, made her look outside of her work, look outside of herself. Molly was the one with the circle of friends who called her every night, Molly was the one whose mobile phone chirped away with texts night and day, Molly was the one to make sure her mum knew what song was great and which one's were 'just tragic Mum!' Alex knew she wasn't old, not by anyone's standards, but sometimes she felt ancient. And Molly was the one - the only one - who could see when that feeling threatened to engulf her, and she would do something to pull Alex out of the lethargy.

Mostly, it meant sticking a series of songs that Alex adored on her iPod, plugging that into the speaker system and making her Mum dance and karaoke round their kitchen to each other. Alex knew she really wasn't that great a singer, but Molly loved to duet with her. Over the top gestures unseen outside of an MGM musical, facial expressions straight from 80's 'Top Of The Pops' - these were the bread and butter of their impromptu musical performances.

Alex smiled at the memory of the photo stuck to their fridge; Alex doing her best Shirley Bassey impression, using a wooden spoon as a microphone, draped in a feather boa conjured somewhere by Molly.

Molly had proven lethal with her camera phone at those times. Alex would shriek in mock horror at the image presented to her, Molly would giggle, and then a few days later, the picture would appear under a magnet on the fridge. Incongruous images between take out menus, council notices about bin collections and the occasional postcard from Evan's last holiday, but things Alex had never known as a child and therefore precious in their ordinariness.

Alex had a sudden recollection - a song that had been on the radio the other day. Why was it so important? Shaking her head, she decided it was more important to write it down while she still remembered:

'My heart is drenched in wine/But you'll be on my mind forever'

No, that wasn't it. That was something from home, a song not even written yet. Was the songwriter even out of nappies yet?

Her thoughts were interrupted as she heard a subtle clearing of throat behind her. Remembering where she was - CID's small break room - she quickly closed her journal and pivoted in the chair to see who was there. To her consternation, it was Gene.

He stood, leaning against the doorframe to the main CID squad room, hands jammed in pockets, looking at her quizzically. 'Busy, Bols?' he asked.

'Er, no. Not really. Well, not entirely...' she trailed off shrugging hopelessly at him.

'That's what I love about you Bolly. All that expensive education makes your every sentence a treasure!'

Alex stood up and faced him, jamming one hand in the back pocket of her jeans. Putting her weight on her right hip, she raked him over and fired back, 'Well, at least I can communicate without sarcasm dripping from my every word!'

Gene looked abashed at this, and held up his hands in a placatory fashion. 'Hey! Take it easy Bols, I was just jokin'!'

Alex examined his face, but he appeared to be telling the truth. Feeling slightly guilty about her seemingly unprovoked verbal attack she dropped her head, and looked back at him. 'Sorry. You caught me off guard there.'

'Oh, that's a offer just hanging in the air Bols!' Gene quipped back. Despite herself, Alex couldn't help laugh. 'See? I do witty.' Gene told her, stepping further into the room and heading for the sink. 'Tea?'

'Why not?' Alex replied, 'Please. Milk, no sugar.' She reached for her mug on the table; half full of cold coffee from, well, she couldn't remember when she'd made it if she was honest.

Gene reached out and took the mug from her, pulling a face at the state of the receptacle. 'So this is what a posh education brings you is it? Inability to wash up?' Catching sight of her face, he turned back to the sink and poured the cold caffeine hit away and started to rinse the mug out with hot water.

'I forgot I made it, okay?' Alex told him, 'I intended to drink it, but well, time got away from me, that's all.' She leant up against the sink unit and hugged her arms to her.

Gene paused in his search for a clean spoon and looked back at her. Admittedly the break area was small, but he found the physical proximity of Alex disturbing. Quietly in the background, Radio 2 chatted away to itself about the appalling traffic around Wolverhampton, and a serious back up caused by an accident in Plymouth. Gene coughed to clear the awkwardness he felt.

'So, Bols, what had you so "engrossed",' and here he used the quotation marks he knew she was so fond of. Alex grinned in amusement at this.

Thank god, Gene thought relaxing a bit, no flying off the handle, just a sign she thinks I did something funny. He raised an eyebrow at her, awaiting her answer.

'Just venting actually.'

''Venting'?' Gene was confused.

'You know, blowing off steam? Mind dumping as, err, a former colleague used to call it.' Actually it was Molly who called it that, and the near mention of her name had nearly tripped Alex up mid-sentence. So saying, she walked back to the small table and sat down.

Gene peered round at her whilst messily washing her mug up. 'Official document?' he asked, spying the red hardback under Alex's right forearm. Alex glanced down, and coloured slightly.

'Err, no. Not at all. Just, well, keeping a log of things really.'

'What kinda things?' Gene's tone hardened, 'Not for Caroline bloody Price I hope!' Or that poxy toffee nosed slimy eyed too soft handed to have a done a proper day's work in his life lurking Evan White either, he added in his mind. Every time Gene turned round, there was White, grinning and ingratiating himself to Alex. Pity he's the right sort of solicitor, thought Gene, or I'd have him in the cells before you could say 'Bolly'.

Alex hugged the book to her, like a child with a teddy bear. 'No! I won't deny that circumstances keep throwing Caroline and I together, and no,' she said rolling her eyes in despair, 'not in that sort of way!'

Gene grinned at her in a lascivious way, leaning back on the draining board as his eyes misted over for a moment.

'Oh for God's sake!' Alex shook her head, causing her curled hair to fall in her eyes, 'Hunt, your mind is a sewer!'

'At least my imagination stays up here,' he told her with a wink as he turned to put the kettle on.

'Anyway, what is in here,' Alex said, placing the notebook back on the table, 'is for me. It's my business, and nothing for you to worry about, okay?'

'Fair enough Bols.'

'Which,' Alex commented nodding to his left side, 'is more than can be said for your tea making skills…'

Gene leapt sideways as the tearoom kettle started to shudder and make noises of protest. 'What the ?' he muttered, as he stepped back.

Alex jumped up and pulled the plug from the wall. Reaching across to the sink, she picked up a partially clean tea towel and removed the kettle top. 'Of course, if you had actually put some water in before you switched it on, things would have gone much more smoothly, don't you think?' she asked him coquettishly.

'How was I to know?' Gene fired back, moving over to the table and slumping on the chair Alex had just vacated.

'Did you not think to look?' Alex had moved to the sink and was filling the still spitting kettle with cold water. She turned round and plugged the appliance back in, busying herself with properly washing mugs.

'I just washed those!' Gene protested.

'No, you didn't,' Alex told him, the conversation strangely reminding her of a running theme with Molly, 'you rinsed them under the tap. It's not the same, despite what you think.'

She smiled at him as she dried the mugs and placed them next to the kettle. There was a moment's silence; for once not awkward between them, as the abused kettle started it's prelude to boil and the water dripped from the cold water tap.

Gene shifted uncomfortably in the hard chair, and in desperation of a subject, gestured to the notebook beside him. 'So, whats in there then? You're too old to be keeping a diary, Bols!' he teased.

'Oh, you can laugh about it now, but in the not so distant future, people will be publishing their diaries so anyone with access to a computer can read about their lives.'

'Oh give over, bloody things are more trouble than they're worth!' Gene snorted, 'All I can get mine to do is tell me the time and play 'Pong' on it!'

'Mock all you like, but it's going to happen. There'll be vast amounts of people linked up all over the world, sending complete strangers virtual drinks and food.' Alex continued.

'Bollocks - what good is that?' Gene snorted in disbelief, 'This is another one of your flights of fantasy, Bols! Virtual food and drink! Next you'll be telling me we'll be living off food pills and walking about in plastic moonsuits!'

Alex sighed. What was the point? It was a moot point anyway, and she'd soon be home amongst it all; the Web, HD Television, on-demand programming, digital radio stations, coffee franchises every other shop, home delivered shopping and email. It was a world Gene obviously couldn't comprehend, and one she had no intention of forcing down his throat. Behind her, the kettle reached its crescendo of bubbling and clicked off.

'Tea, Bols? We still have tea in the future?' Gene asked slightly sarcastically.

'Yes, Gene, we still have tea. And biscuits actually.' Alex paused as she poured hot water into the two mugs.

'What?'

'I have biscuits. In my desk drawer.'

'Well, that's not place for 'em! Bring them out, Bolly! I could murder a digestive about now…'Gene leaned back in his chair and looked hopeful.

'I'll, er, just go and get them then,' Alex told him, waving a hand at the steaming mugs, 'Milk, no sugar please!' she said as she left the kitchenette.

'Like I don't know how you take it.' Gene told her under his breath.

He also knew she didn't like coffee, had a seemingly endless thirst for red wine, wouldn't say no to champagne and, in his opinion, could do with a bit more flesh on her. He also knew Alex appeared to favour those tee-shirt tops that permanently exposed one alabaster shoulder and bra strap, painted on blue jeans and heeled boots. And it hadn't escaped his notice that although she wore make up the like of which Gene couldn't escape from seeing on the fashion magazines that ended up in the tearoom, Alex didn't slap it on and leave it. God alone knows how she did it, but, under what passed for normal conditions, her mascara remained unsmudged, her vividly coloured eyeshadow perfectly blended and her lipstick present at all times. Her nails were kept short and neat, no great long talons painted implausibly red. So, remembering how Alex took her tea was child's play by comparison, he told himself.

He stirred their respective drinks and placed them on the table, nudging Alex's notebook aside as he did so. Sitting down, and giving himself an angle that allowed him a view of the office, Gene snatched up the book and opened the cover.

Scribble. Pure, unreadable, loopy squiggle met his eyes and he was disappointed. Part of him - the narcissistic part, if he knew how to spelt it - hoped there would be some mention of him. Something along the lines of 'I dream of Gene constantly - I wonder if he knows how I long for him?' or something more, well, graphic. Damn.

Gene knew he should just put the book down, that what he was doing was wrong. If Alex caught him leafing through her thoughts, she'd kill him. And it would be noisy and painful and an end to their friendship. Alright, he admitted, it was still a budding friendship. He wasn't all that sure if he could stretch the term to cover what was happening between them. For he had never been friends with a woman.

Never having a sister cramped him in that direction, and watching his mother being knocked about by his drunken father hadn't exactly given him a healthy attitude to relationships.

He was mates with Ray, sort of.

He had been mates with Harry Woolf. It had started as hero worship and ended in disgust after Harry's criminal activities had come to light, but at one time, they had been mates.

And then there had been Sam Tyler.

Gene blinked heavily and refused to allow himself to wallow again. Sam was gone. But Sam had been a mate. And not just one to prop the bar up with.

But no woman had ever been a friend. A girlfriend, a fling, a one-night stand, a wife. Friendship had never come into it.

Which was why it was so bloody difficult with Alex.

Gene had long ago ceased to try to fool himself that the initial lust reaction to her had faded, it was a pointless exercise in futility. However, this woman, so different from all he had known before, made him want to be different for her. Gene found himself trying to be more open, calmer, less aggressive to Alex. He bought her drinks, and was trying not to feel threatened when she bought him a drink back. He held doors for her, and didn't make a thing about it when she occasionally repaid the favour.

He was trying to be a better man for her, and yet not lose the respect of the rest of the team while he was about it. Bloody near impossible, but Gene was fairly sure he was just about flying under the office gossip radar. So, in the interests of furthering his friendship with Alex, Gene closed the notebook slowly. As he did, a line caught his eye and he read it, just able to catch the last word as the cover of the book closed.

And then Alex re-entered the kitchen, smiling and waving an unopened packet of chocolate digestives at him. 'Found them!' she beamed, 'Oh well done, tea made!'

'Er, yeah,' Gene said vaguely reaching for his tea, his mind racing with what he had just read.

'Are you alright?' Alex sat down on the opposite side of the table and leaned over to him, 'You look a bit pale?'

'Me? I'm fine!' Gene overstated, 'Be better once you open the biscuits though Bolly!'

'Typical.' Alex told him with a comic roll of her eyes as she ripped open the packet.

'Marvellous,' Gene said, reaching over and grabbing three chocolate-laden biscuits in one lightning raid.

'Hey!' Alex snatched the packet back out of his reach, 'They are supposed to last a week!'

'Not round here, and not now I know you've got 'em' Gene mumbled round a mouthful of biscuit. He stood up, grabbed his tea and with a wink, returned to the office and his inner sanctum. He closed the door, plonked his tea down on yet another 'Community Relations' report, dumped the biscuits beside it and collapsed in his chair.

The words he thought he had seen swam before his eyes, and he scribbled them down on his messy blotter:

'_And if I lost you I don't know what I'd do/Burn forever where the flame turns blue.'_

What did it mean? Was this more of Alex's scatterbrain working into overdrive? Or, did he dare hope, did it mean him? Deciding another chocolate biscuit just might help his thinking, Gene dunked and thought on.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, Alex opened her notebook up where she had left off, and picked up her pen. 'If I lost who?' she pondered to herself, looking at the same lyric. Molly. Yes, that was it. If she lost Molly, she wouldn't know what to do.

But what if by being here as long as she had been, she already had lost her daughter?

Who else? Evan?

Oh surely not. Alex had accepted she had nursed a crush on Evan when she was a teenager, but that was all over now. Of course, meeting him now, in 1981, did remind her why she had felt that way. But it was impossible now.

It was obvious he liked Alex, was partial to her company and, she thought, keen to know her better. Not knowing he was flirting with the woman his 8-year-old goddaughter would become in the fullness of time. The woman he would help to raise and encourage to become all she could.

So not Evan.

Definitely not.

Her parents?

Well, she had lost them. No, she corrected herself, not lost, she had not lost them. They had been stolen from her and she could yet find them and keep them safe.

So, not Molly, not Evan, not her parents.

Damn her subconscious mind, she cursed. She picked up the notebook and tucking it up under her arm, made her way back into the office to try and do some proper work.

As she sat down at her desk, she looked across to Gene's office. He too was sitting at his desk, looking pensive and was writing something down. He suddenly looked up and - was it her imagination or just the dreadful strip lighting in this place? He definitely coloured, thought Alex. It might not have been a blush, but Gene definitely coloured when he met her eyes.

He nodded at her and looked back at what he was writing down.

Alex tapped her own writings with a finger and looked back at him. 'Gene?' she thought, 'If I lost him?'

She picked up the book and locked it away in her desk drawer, carefully placing the keys back in her jacket.

'Just as well he hasn't read that…' she told herself under her breath reaching for a case file.

Unaware that in his office, Gene was identifying all to easily with Alex's subconscious choice of lyric from a song that had yet to be written.


End file.
